


If brokenness is a form of art (I must be a poster child prodigy)

by fabulous_but_evil



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: A hand-wavy approach to canon tbh, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, As in: mentions of Elizabeth and her changing lovers if you squint, Background Het, Background Poly, Background Relationships, Begging, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Collars, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Dark, Especially by 05x01, Established Relationship, Fisting, Forced Orgasm, Gaslighting, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, If you'd call murder husbands seducing someone just to murder him that, Inspired by Canon, Introspection, James Patrick March Is His Own Warning, James Patrick March vs. the 21st Century, Kinda, Knifeplay, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Object Insertion, Oh Well That Escalated Quickly, Open Relationships, Original Character(s), Ownership, POV Alternating, Pain, Painful Sex, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Punishment, Rivalry, Self-Esteem Issues, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Victim Blaming, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabulous_but_evil/pseuds/fabulous_but_evil
Summary: All James wants is to lure another poor unsuspecting soul into the hotel and kill them.All John wants is a quick fuck with someone else than James for once.Things don't go quite as planned for either of them.(Or: James and John go out hunting together and get a little carried away...)
Relationships: John Lowe/James Patrick March, John Lowe/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	If brokenness is a form of art (I must be a poster child prodigy)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/gifts).



> Dear Naemi!
> 
> This was my first time writing this ship, and it was my first time writing fisting, and I'm a little worried that it shows xD
> 
> Additionally, it's been quite a while that I watched AHS: Hotel, and when I did, I didn't even watch it in English, so I'm also a little bit worried that that shows as well, especially when it comes to characterization and such /o\
> 
> Nevertheless, I had a BLAST writing for your very inspiring request(s), and I hope you enjoy reading the result, too \o/

James Patrick March is a man of very defined taste.  
He likes his style Victorian, his murders bloody, impulsive but planned and his murderer's... well.  
First of all, he's a narcissist, and that's why he spends most of his afterlife lecturing his nearly just-as-long-deceased murder buddies and pals on why he's amazing and what they did wrong, going on about their murderous pursuits.  
And those... _chosen ones_ , those students lucky enough to catch his eye and interest and attention to warrant him putting work into shaping them, he likes... ambitious and hungry and desperate for approval and success.  
That's why he chose John. John, with all his grief bordering on depression and his drinking habit bordering on alcoholism. John, with all his repressed potential and anger at the world and its cruelty. John, with all this underlying thirst of blood, reminding James of himself when he was still around that age, and still _alive_.  
And John's murders, they were breathtakingly _beautiful_ , and _oh_ , how he let himself be _lead_ to achieve that kind of beauty.  
But sometimes, his favourite little pet, his broken poster child prodigy, got a little ahead of himself and thus needed to be put in his place - at James' feet - and reminded of who was really in charge.

*

The first time it happened, they were out hunting.  
He had overheard Elizabeth and her boyfriends talk about the local Park being their favourite hunting grounds, especially when there was a horror movie screening.  
John had agreed that for some reason, people felt rather drawn to dangerous people while or after watching a scary movie, so now there they were.  
James picked their victim. Young, pretty, _eager_ and _just their type_.  
It was easy to talk him into accompanying them to the hotel.  
John approached and complimented him, explaining the situation, vaguely gesturing into James' general direction and saying something like _My boyfriend thinks you're hot_.  
( _Boyfriend_ is such a disgustingly modern word, one he heard Elizabeth use for her changing and various male flings, and deemed fitting. For whatever he and John have, he always preferred the _term partner (in crime)_ or maybe, if it aren't for the sour, _Elizabethian_ implications of that word, _husband_.)  
He thought they were going to fuck him, and now that the thought struck him, James decided that maybe they would do just that, but maybe not the way that guy wanted them to.  
"What's your name?," he asked him on their way back to the hotel, because he liked his prey to think the lion cared about them.  
"Zach," he said and grinned. John and James smiled back, all fake and feral and a little loving, even, at no one but each other.  
As they reached the hotel, they let their companion marvel at the interior design of the lobby until they reached the elevator, where James gave John a push and the younger man pushed Zach up the wall and caught his mouth in a captivating kiss that was nothing but teeth and a hint of blood.  
The next thing James does is hand John the knife. John begins to fiddle with the buttons on Zach's shirt before he brings it up to his throat, blunt end pressed against the soft, sensitive skin there, and as if that wasn't already _deviating from script_ enough, he then whispers hoarsely, "What's your safeword?"  
"I've mostly used the traffic lights system before, so I'd simply go with _Red_ ," he replies predictively.  
"Very well."  
James can hear the cruel grin in John's voice, the voice of the Ten Commandment's Killer and the man that lies beyond all of that, something that no one except himself should find attractive, especially no mere mortal like Zach. Right then and there, he can't bring himself to stop John, because he's _beautiful_ when he gets like this, and although every single undead resident of the hotel knows him as _malevolent_ , James doesn't really feel like punishing John for only this relatively small transgression - but _oh_ , how fun it's going to be to punish him after he's let him run free at first, allowing him to push his boundaries a few times more...  
The elevator comes to a halt, the door opens and John drags Zach out by the collar, straight to the room they decided to use for their little games.  
James watches him fiddle with the keys, as if he couldn't just make quick work of the locks either by using his own set of keys or his ghostly powers himself.  
Eventually, John succeeds and the door slides open with a very halloween-esque creak.  
He pushes Zach through it, making him stumble straight to the bed and into the mattress. John's on him again in seconds, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw and throat, leaving hickeys and bitemarks in their wake.  
He's flipping the knife in his hand again and presses the handle against Zach's well-formed, stone-hard abs in a carricature of the over-used _Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?_ scenario.  
"I'm going to fuck you with this," John hisses close to Zach's lips, and James still has this very small amount of hope left that he's referring to the sharp end.  
The way Zach moans, though, wanton and wanting, hips bucking up desperately against the unrelenting pressure, suggests that he expects otherwise.  
John wrestles him out of his clothes, spreading his legs, spitting in his hands and pushing one finger in.  
Zach moans again, pressing back against the pressure.  
John's quick to add a second and a third, using nothing but his own spit as lube, Zach obviously getting off on the pain.  
Eventually, he withdraws his hand, and replaces it with the handle of the knife. James can't say he's dissappointed, exactly. Delighted, rather, because John's going off the rails so much, it can only warrant punishment. He's practically _asking_ for it by now.  
John goes on to fuck the knife in and out of Zach, making him moan and whine and buck up against thin air.  
James' getting bored with it. He stalks towards the bed, getting his own knife out and hiding it behind his back. He begins to pet Zach's sweaty hair, watching his eyes flutter open and then closed again without really seeing him, let alone recognize the threat coming with him.  
James slits his throat with a flick of his wrist, his cock giving one last, shocked, twitching jerk before the blood from his jugular gushes over him.  
"Aw, man, Jim." John pulls his hand back and licks the blood off of it. "I was just starting to have fun."  
"Yes, exactly. _You_ were having fun. _You_ are doing whatever _you_ want to do, with no regard to my needs and wishes."  
There's a shift in the atmosphere when John realizes just how much trouble he has really gotten himself into.  
"Look, James, I..."  
"Oh, no, my _dearest_ , there's no need for explanations nor excuses. I know. All you wanted was to top someone once more. I understand. But you need to understand that you need to ask my permission first if you want something. And if I don't grant it right away, you beg. And if I still don't relent after that, you accept that, or deal with the consequences of your transgression."  
"You're going to punish me," he says, defeated, but he can't quite keep the tremble of arousal out of his voice. John can't help but needwant, yes, almost _love_ him when he gets like this; murderously feral.  
"Why of course, my dear. But I want you to beg for it."  
John stares at him darkly. Hungry and desperate and underneath all of that _angry_. Angry at himself for not being _better_. Angry at himself for not being a better man, for getting himself into this situation in the first place. Angry at himself for not being a better killer, angry at himself for needing March's guidance in the first place, for not outshining him yet.  
"Please, sir," he grits out.  
"Oh, but we both know that you can do better than this, my dear."  
"Please, sir. Please, punish me, sir. Please, I deserve it. I... I've been a bad boy, and I deserve to be punished, please, sir, oh, _please_..."  
"Oh, yes, you _need_ this, don't you, my dear?"  
"Yes," he grits out, and it tastes like a lie on his tongue.  
"Well, well." He claps his hands together once before rolling up his sleeves and and dragging Zach's life-less body to the next best trap door. "Now that we've established how sick and tired you are of me fucking you, I thought we spiced things up a bit."  
"Sure, whatever you want."  
"Huh?"  
"Sir," he adds, bitter and dry like gin tonic.  
"Good boy. Why don't you ask me what I have in mind?"  
"Why don't you just go on and fucking surprise me, huh? Sir."  
"Ask. Me. Johnny. Boy."  
"What do you want to do to me, sir?"  
"It's not about what I want, but what you _need_. About what I'll _make_ you want. But I'll be so kind and tell you nonetheless. I'm going to put my entire hand inside you."  
John can't hold back an involuntary, bitter laugh. Surprised, dry. Fifty percent a cough and half a scoff, really. "You're going to fist me? Sir."  
"That word's so... vulgar." What he means is _disgustingly modern_. He likes vulgar. It's just that John comes out of a different century, and James doesn't like things that are unfamiliar to him, that's why he stays honest and true to the things he's _familiar_ with. The hotel. The murders. The murderers. The cruelty. The torture. The suffering. The _pain_.  
"Yeah, whatever, that's what it's called. Do I get a say in the matter?"  
"Oh, but of course not, my dear."  
He doesn't explain himself. He doesn't have to. John knows James thinks him incapable of making his own decisions.  
"Yeah, well, then let's get this over with, shall we? Do you want me to strip?"  
"Please. Whatever you're comfortable with."  
John scoffs, beginning to unbutton his bloodied shirt and shucking of his shoes, socks and pants.  
James stares at him, very intently, cold and clinical. Like a butcher assessing meat, more like a wolf circeling its prey.  
In moments like this, John really wants to kiss James. Wants to pretend they're a normal fucking couple without blood on their hands and twisted fucking power dynamics between them. Without stupid, impulsive rules set in stone and reconsidered at James' every whim.  
John meets and holds his gaze as he slowly lowers his underpants and steps out of them, stands there in all his naked, undead glory.  
"C'mon now, lay down on the bed."  
And he obeys, because now that he's already being punished, there's no need to make matters worse for him.  
"How do you want me, sir?"  
"On your back. Pull your knees up to your chest and hold them there. Yes, exactly like that. Good boy."  
The position is uncomfortable. John feels naked and exposed, a circumstance only helped along by the fact that James is still fully clothed. He crouches down in front of him and doesn't hesitate before he presses a well-lubed finger against his hole.  
John has a hard time relaxing, maybe because of the position or the situation, he can never be quite sure with James.  
It hurts, maybe from the beginning, or maybe only after he adds a second finger, a third, a fourth.  
John wriggles awkwardly in position. He doesn't really know if he's trying to get closer to the touch or away from it. He never knows these things when it comes to James.  
He fills him out, fills him to the brim, four fingers in and a fifth already pressing at his rim.  
"Please," he grits out. "Please, James. Please, don't. Please, I know I fucked up, okay? I won't try and fuck anyone else ever again, okay? I will only ever do anything you tell me and nothing else, okay? Please, sir, it hurts, and I can't take it anymore, _please_..."  
"Shhh...," James whispers, placing a finger on his lips, and John kisses it, letting his mouth fall open almost immediately, his tongue darting out to lap at the smooth digit, a silent plea, a last, wasted attempt of bargaining for mercy. "You've brought this upon yourself, my dear," James muses, and pushes his thumb in.  
John almost fucking wails at the sensation of being split apart like that, four fingers stretching him open, a relentless, steady pressure going deeper and deeper.  
His body tries to clench around the unwanted intrusion and rid itself of it, but its attempts stay painfully unsuccessful.  
"Don't forget to breathe, John," James murmurs, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forhead, and John lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his body unvoluntarily relaxing, which only seems to allow James' hand to reach new vulnerable spots of his anatomy.  
His arms and legs begin to tremble from the strain of the position, his heart is hammering in his chest and he's findling it hard to breathe.  
"James, _please_ ," John whines, and as if on cue, he curls his fingers inside him into a fist, somehow, impossibly brushing his prostate. The painful spark of arousal goes straight to his cock - a body part he has kind of half-forgotten about, despite it being flushed an angry red and practically begging for its master's attention.  
"Tell me what it feels like, John," James demands, a sick fascination in his eyes, looking at him the same way he looks when he watches the life drain out of his victims.  
"It hurts and I can't breathe and I want it to stop. Please, sir, please make it... please, stop!"  
"That's not what you really want now, or is it?"  
He begins to uncurl his fingers and move his hand, painfully slowly fucking into him, and it hurts, John's quite sure of that - except that what he feels isn't _pain exactly_ but rather a feeling as if his nerve endings were on fire, feeling too much too soon and all at once.  
His strained cock is leaking pre-come onto his heaving stomach.  
"I... I want to come, sir."  
"If I take my hand out now, I won't let you. You come with my hand inside you or not at all."  
John lets out another undignified noise, something closely akin to a whine somewhere high in his throat. He's sure the steady pressure on his prostate won't let him take long to finish, but then again, he's afraid of the muscle contradictions coming with every climax making his walls clench down on James' hand, drawing him in deeper and making the pain even worse.  
"Please, sir. I don't know want I want or need. Please. I trust you to make the right decision for me."  
"Well, well, you've been a very bad boy, I don't think you deserve to have your little dick played with, do you?"  
"No, I... I don't know, sir, I can't think, I just want you to make it stop, please..."  
"You know what?" It's a rhethorical question, James doesn't expect an answer to this. It's confusing his overwhelmed senses nonetheless, and John closes his eyes and throws his head back into the pillow.  
"Hey!" With his free hand, James delivers a sharp slap to the sensitive back of his thigh.  
John makes another undignified noise, almost-closely resembling a groan as his whole body tenses up, really making him feel the fist up his ass. His eyes flutter open and his head jerks back up, meeting James' intense, penetrating gaze.  
"Eyes on me, slut," he commands, and John obeys, quite torn whether or not he will get sensory overload from all of this. "And by the way, I asked you a question."  
He's scrambling for words, but all he seems to be able to think of is, "What?"  
Somehow, that seems to be good enough. For now.  
"I'm going to put my other hand inside you, too, and you're going to come like this, without me touching you any other way."  
"Oh, god, no, please don't..."  
But there's no use. John can already feel another lubed-up finger pushing at his straining opening. It gives in way to easily, John thinks. His body shouldn't be able to take anymore, but then again, his body isn't even real anymore, nothing but astral projection.  
James is relatively quick to add a second, third and fourth finger, stretching hin open painfully. His entire body feels numb and aflame at the same time. He can't grasp a single, coherent thought except _I can't take this anymore and I want this to stop_ but somehow, everything just keeps happening too much all the time.  
When he finally adds his thumb, his whole body jerks, making him moan and shudder all over.  
He feels _too full_ and _too much_ and _too intense_ and he thinks he might be crying, both of James' fists a cruel, steady pressure against his prostate, all of it suddenly _too much_ and _more than enough_ to push him over the edge and making him come, shaking all over.  
It hurts, and his whole body is clenching and he moans and screams and yells.  
He thinks he might just've passed out, really, because when he comes to again, reality is cold, hard, sharp and cruel on his mind, a crass dissonance to the prevailing bliss of ignorant nothingness.  
"Are you back here with me again?," James asks, almost-gently tucking a curl of John's sweaty hair back behind his ear, except he knows better than that, nothing James ever does should or even could be called gentle nowadays, and all he can do is nod. They say the one you like will take your breath away, and although his chest is heaving, James takes it one step further - when the two of them are together, they always take it to the extremes, don't they? - James takes his voice away, his words, his language, and he does so quite literally by making him scream until his throat feels raw, but also by fucking up his mind just as bad as his body, making his head grow dizzy and fuzzy and almost-peacefully empty. Almost.  
James lets it side that he doesn't use his words this time around, and his hand wanders lower, over John's cheek, the very fingertips that were just buried deep inside him, wringing an only half-unwanted orgasm out of him, ghosting over his adam's apple like a threat of things to come, making him swallow involuntarily.  
James is a man who always follow up to his threats and this time he does barely wait beforehand, because the next thing John feels is a heavy strap of leather being fastened around his neck, not quite right enough to choke, but just enough to make its presence known.  
"You're mine now, John. Actually have been for quite a while, but you're stubborn and can't accept change that easily, so I thought I'd help you along with a little reminder of who you belong to. What do you say?"  
"Thank you, sir," he croaks out.  
"That's a good boy," James murmurs, places an almost-chaste kiss in John's lips and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, the affection of the greatest murderer of all time, the honor of being so close to him and revelling in his insane genius bloodlust, might just be worth all of this suffering for him.


End file.
